Anyone who knows me well can attest to the fact that I can be abrupt, a tad forceful, and even downright inappropriate. I am careful to couch my rudeness in comedy, but I still say the most appalling things.Â
Likewise, I engage in inappropriate touch, mainly with men. Depending on the day, it can be either borderline lewd or borderline violent. Yet, when my ten-year old daughter punches me just a little too playfully, I become scared and irate.
During a soundcheck for a worship service in May 2014 I had an "a ha!" moment. I found myself thinking of the offbeat thing I was about to say, and became aware that I could choose to say it…or not.Â
I chose to say it. While not lewd, the remark grated in my ear; it sounded a little too harsh. Not quite the best version of myself. Needlessly brittle. All couched in just enough sarcasm that no-one would mistake my offbeat heaviness for genuine rudeness. But it grated nevertheless.
I reflected afterward that—just before I opened my mouth (and immediately after I closed it)—something was different.Â
I was aware of how I sounded, and I didn't like it.Â
You see, I think my anger is a mask. If you will, a bandage. I use it to deflect gentle knocks, off-putting thoughts, unpleasant confrontations. Bad memories.Â
The bandage is protecting a wound.Â
Or at least, it used to be. My comment to the new band member was meant to assuage his fears. Instead I was aware of the wrapping it came in…a bit of cast-off gauze, with crusty, dried bitterness hanging from it.Â
When we act out of things, there is invariably a backstory…the thing we are acting out from. The stone thrown into the pond way back when.
My experiments in gentle roughness with males have been me subtly testing the idea of my personal boundaries, and to a degree flexing the long-atrophied muscles of self-defence. Why? Because as a young boy, those boundaries were erased by a culture of shame, violence and intimidation in the home. The reason I get so angry when my ten-year old crosses the line with me physically is that somewhere inside me a ten year old boy is still fearful of the original gesture.
And I rage still in my fear.Â
The sound check episode tells that me at some deep level, a part of my soul no longer needs to inure itself to violence.
Likewise, my gentle sarcasm in the workplace is beginning to grate in my ears.Â
I have a theory that sometimes we do harm to ourselves to reset our boundaries. Crass talk. Loose dressing. Dodgy diets. Something to disrupt our equilibrium, to shock us. To have an internal response.
A counsellor once explained to me how, if someone wrongs you and makes no amends (or worse still, blames you for the outcome), you get angry.Â
This has happened so much to me in the past that I actually had to be told it. In my experience, if you don’t get angry, you get depressed (and, of course, the abuse will continue).
It doesn't matter where you get healed (well, it does, but that's another post)…it matters that you get healed.Â
I didn't get healed at the music rehearsal…I realised I was healed. But I don't think it was an accident that I realised it at a rehearsal. Rehearsing and playing live worship music with fellow journeyers has been one of the enduring sources of joy in my life.Â
A safe, loving environment knows when it's time to have a quiet word with you, and when you're just tearing off the bandaid. They see the difference. And if they’re strong enough, they’ll give you the space to work it out yourself.
Soothing music. A beautiful train ride. Great coffee. The gentle unpicking hands of a trained therapist. A well-turned phrase in a book. Wherever life returns to you is where you get healed.
